


Back Against The Wall

by squidproquo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, PWP, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sorry Not Sorry, but not too much I promise, kind of, now there's some plot, sansan, wait
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-05
Updated: 2015-01-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 21:18:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2083470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squidproquo/pseuds/squidproquo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Hound catches Sansa returning from a late-night meeting with Ser Dontos in the godswood. </p><p>(This was originally a one-shot, and the first chapter can still stand alone if you're into that kind of thing.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm a horrible human being for writing this, and an even worse one for really enjoying it. Please be warned that the line between dubcon and noncon is thin indeed in this story. Sansa's aged up (17), in case that helps.

One moment, she was making her way quickly and quietly through the deserted hallways of the Red Keep, congratulating herself on her successful secret visit to the godswood; the next, she found herself jerked to a halt, large fingers like bands of iron wrapped around her forearm. Sansa gasped, wondering who could have her in his clutches while simultaneously wondering whether she dared scream and call the guards. They’d save her, perhaps, from this unknown man, but who would save her from her beloved king when he learned she’d been out of her room late at night? Or if- when- he learned why? It was treason, high treason, what she was planning, treason in truth for which she might deserve the same mercy forced on her father for a lie. Before she could make a decision, the choice was taken from her in the form of a second hand clamped firmly across her mouth.

“And what are you doing out of your cage at this hour, little bird?” a voice rasped in the darkness, and Sansa almost sobbed with relief. Of all the people to catch her under such suspicious circumstances, the Hound was the only one who might possibly refrain from reporting her activity to the king. He was not kind, exactly, never kind, and his silver eyes often burned with rage and hatred when they settled on her, yet still she thought he might keep her secret.

The Hound pulled her against him, holding her facing away for a long moment before spinning her around and pressing her hard to the wall. The stone was cold on her back through her thin silk gown, and perhaps rough enough to snag the delicate material, but that was the least of her concerns. He had her pinned with one long arm across her chest, and it wouldn’t take much for him to pin her by the throat instead. She didn’t move, not even to open her mouth when he removed his hand at last.

“Well?” he demanded, angry as he so often was. “Meeting a lover, were you? Some handsome _true knight_ trying to talk his way under your skirts?”

“No! Of course not,” she responded, scandalized.

“Maybe he’s talked his way between your legs already,” the Hound continued, voice pitched low and dangerous, and Sansa realized suddenly that he was drunk. The scent of wine was on his breath and the fire in his eyes was diffuse, unfocused, though it burned as hot as ever. “Is that it? Were you off ruining yourself on some pretty lordling’s prick?”

“My lord, please-”

He chuckled darkly, pressing himself against her, and like the ancient unyielding wall behind her he was immovable. She could feel the heat of him, his incredible solidity, the stiff length of his manhood even through his breeches, and though she was innocent she wasn’t so naïve as to be unaware of what it meant. His hands were on her, too, one toying with her hair, the other tracing across her collarbone and dipping just below the modest neckline of her gown. It felt… She didn’t even know, really, only knew she was afraid and ought to hate his touch but suspected she didn’t, not as much as she should.

“Your lord would be pretty, wouldn’t he, little bird?” he continued, scorn and something else, something desperate, coloring his words. “Fair of face and form like your Ser Loras… And you’d look into his eyes as he fucked you, and think yourself in love.”

Sansa’s already labored breath caught as the Hound moved his hand from the bare skin just under her bodice to her breast, and she thought she might die of shame when she realized he could feel her nipple hard beneath the gossamer light fabric of her gown. She didn’t understand why her body should react that way when it wasn’t cold, but he rubbed his thumb over the little peak again and again, sending sparks of sensation all through her body.

“You could close your eyes,” he murmured into her ear, almost gentle, warm breath ghosting across her skin. “When I take you, I could be anyone, even one of your precious true knights.”

Her heart seized with fear and... Something else, at his words. Before she could form any response, he lowered his mouth to her throat, kissing and sucking and biting at the vulnerable skin concealing her pulse. His fingers continued to tease her nipple while his other hand tangled in the hair at the nape of her neck, holding her still. He trailed his lips along her flesh, and Sansa could feel the twisted scars as he pressed them to her chest. It wasn’t until his mouth reached her nipple that his hand abandoned her breast to pull at her skirts, rucking them up around her waist.

“Please,” she gasped, trying to push his hand away, trying to pull her skirts down. “You can’t-”

Her words trailed off into a soft cry as he sucked her puckered nipple through her dress, sending a bolt of bright white sensation deep into her core. He looked up at her, gaze amused yet intense. “I can, little bird. Because you can’t stop me.”

Then he resumed his torture, scraping his teeth gently over her before turning his attention to her other, neglected breast. Her head spun, dizzy at the heat of his mouth on her sensitive flesh. The hallway, the Keep, the brick at her back, everything seemed to fade near to nothingness, the pleasure of the way he was tasting her condensing her world into nothing more than the touch of his tongue and teeth through damp silk.

For a moment, it seemed as though nothing could matter more than that. But then he was also stroking her, caressing her calves and thighs, inching higher and higher under her skirts until she realized that he wouldn’t stop, that he fully intended to touch her _there_ , in that secret place where she was already throbbing. When she felt the heat of his hand through the silk of her smallclothes as he cupped her, her racing heart nearly stopped beating from the shock of it. She knew, intellectually, what happened in the marriage bed, but she’d never imagined anything like this, like the cold fire of his eyes as he raised his head and looked into her face while he massaged her through the damp fabric.

“You’re so wet for me,” he groaned, desire thick in his deep voice. “For _me_. Gods, little bird, I want...”

Sansa knew what he wanted, even if she didn’t quite understand it. She also knew that he wasn’t supposed to have it, that no matter how incredible his fingers felt, he couldn’t take what he wanted. Or shouldn’t, at least. He was right in that. He _could_ take it because she couldn’t stop him.

When he tore her smallclothes she thought about fighting. She thought about screaming. She thought about the guards taking them both away, and both their heads on spikes, and held herself still instead. He slipped his fingers between the slick folds of her sex, caressing and teasing her, and his eyes never strayed from hers, even as he pushed one long finger deep inside of her. She cried out and he used his free hand to silence her, adding another finger now that she couldn’t give voice to the pain. And it did hurt. Even the first one had, a sharp sting followed by the burning sensation of being stretched beyond her body’s limits.

She shifted under him, whimpering against his hand over her mouth, and he cursed. “Fucking hells, you’re tight. I’ve never had a maid before. But I’ve always wanted to be the one to make you bleed, make you come, come inside you… _Fuck_.”

Suddenly, his fingers were gone and he was guiding her hand to the front of his breeches. She could feel her own wetness on him, somehow slippery and sticky at once, and tried to pull her hand away. But his grip only tightened, and she knew what he wanted her to do; between the two of them, they were able to unlace him, and then she could feel him hot and hard and huge in her grasp. She remembered the way his fingers had burned and felt a sudden panic welling up inside her. It was impossible to imagine something so large _fitting_ , despite knowing that was how it was supposed to work.

Even as she was frantically trying to think of a way to avoid that fate, he placed his hand over hers, encouraging her to stroke him firmly. “Touch me,” he commanded, but it was almost a plea, and something in his tone thrilled her. She was at his mercy, yes, but he was at hers as well. So she did as he bade her, caressing his strangely smooth flesh the way he showed her until she could feel a sticky liquid seeping from him. She could tell that the tip of his cock was especially sensitive based on the way he gasped when she touched it, and she rubbed her palm over it, using his own moisture to make it a smooth glide.

“Enough!” he groaned, low and rough, the raw need in his voice filling her with an unaccustomed sense of power. “You’d have me spill all over those dainty hands.”

Sansa wasn’t quite sure what he meant, though she thought she liked the idea. But the Hound tugged on her wrist, forcing her to release him. He pressed himself even harder against her until she could feel him teasing her slit with the head of his cock, sliding it maddeningly up and down, nudging it against a particularly sensitive spot above her opening that made her gasp with every touch. Something was building in her, something she couldn't name, but it faded as he slid down one final time and positioned himself at her entrance. Sansa closed her eyes as he had advised her. She tried to call to mind Ser Loras’s handsome face, but his perfect features eluded her; she could only see grey eyes and scarred skin, whether her own eyes were open or closed.

For all that it didn’t matter, her eyes flew open in shock when he pushed into her in one swift, decisive movement. It hurt, much more than his fingers had, and the stretching she'd felt then had become magnified, growing into a tearing sensation as he moved inexorably forward. Tears ran down her cheeks, and she cried out against his hand, but he didn’t stop until he was fully seated within her. There was a hard look on his face, one of focus and intense concentration, and pleasure as well perhaps.

“I’m going to trust you not to call for the guards,” he said, voice shaking and hoarse. “If you do, they’ll see me with my cock buried to the hilt in your sweet cunt and we’ll both be dead.”

He finally removed his hand from her mouth, and she inhaled deeply, only just realizing how little air she’d been able to breathe before.

“Or do you want that, little bird?” he asked, moving slowly within her. It was a bizarre feeling, the intrusion of his flesh into her, the certain knowledge that her body had been formed to accommodate him this way. His every thrust sent new shocks of pain through her body, but there was still that elusive _something_ under the pain, enticing and frustratingly out of reach. “Do you want the whole court to watch me fuck you like a whore against the wall? It would be worth it to me, to have them see _Lady_ Sansa Stark with her legs spread for a dog.”

“I didn’t-” she began, only to trail off into a moan as his cock rubbed something sweetly sensitive inside her.

“You like that, do you?” he demanded, angling his hips so that he stroked that spot again and again. “Don’t lie. A dog can sniff out lies, I told you.”

“Yes,” she gasped. “Yes, I like that.”

Her words seemed to have a strange effect on him. He groaned and gripped her hip tightly, hard enough to bruise, while tangling his other hand in her hair. Then his mouth was on hers, hard and hot and open, his tongue sliding between her lips even as he pounded into her. The hints of pleasure she’d felt before had completely disappeared, but the discomfort of his invasion was almost pleasure too.

Soon, his movements became more erratic, his mouth hungrier and more desperate, until finally he removed his lips from hers.

“Look at me,” he ordered urgently, as he had once before so long ago, and the fury and despair she remembered were just as present, just as raw as they had been then. She raised her eyes to his disfigured face. His dark hair fell forward over his burns, hiding them almost completely, and there was something darkly compelling about the way his face was contorted with ecstasy. “Look at me when I come inside you. Gods, little bird- Sansa- Please… _Sansa_ …”

His voice broke on her name, almost a sob. He forced himself to the very depths of her body, eyes never leaving hers, and she could feel his cock pulsing and the hot rush of his release at her core. It was almost horrifically intimate, the feeling of him taking his pleasure inside her, the intensity bordering on pain in his roiling silver eyes. He held himself still for several heartbeats before he collapsed heavily against her, gasping for breath as though he’d just run all the way up the serpentine steps.

Hesitantly, she reached up and stroked his hair, surprised to find it almost silky beneath her fingers. “You’re mine now, little bird,” he murmured into her ear, his breath against the sensitive shell causing her to shiver in his arms.

Somehow, she didn’t think Joffrey would quite see it that way.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Four days after their encounter, an ambivalent Sansa confronts the Hound.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is kind of a mixture of TV and book canon. Sorry if it's confusing. Basically I'm taking the scenes I prefer in each case, so if it seems like things don't match up, well, you're not wrong.

The Hound was aptly named, if only for the way he slept. He lay sprawled out on his massive bed in nothing but his breeches, arms spread, legs spread, head thrown back, with only soft snuffling sounds and the occasional growl to break the silence. Sansa couldn’t help but think of the pups she had known at Winterfell, always dozing in just that way. She might have been amused by the remembrance if she hadn’t been standing in the dark in his room, desperately clinging to the dagger hidden in her pocket. It was a gift from her father, a miniature twin of Ice, and perfect in every detail, even to the crossguard engraved with the words of House Stark. It made her feel brave, like the wolf she was supposed to be. Or almost. 

 _This is foolishness_ , the sensible voice inside her head whispered. And it was, she knew it was. It hadn’t been planned, hadn’t really been a choice, she just… It had been four days since she’d encountered the Hound on her return from the godswood. Four days since he’d… Since they’d… Since… Whatever had happened had happened. Four days of anxiety, of waiting for the moment when she’d see him again, of preparing herself for it, only to discover day after day that her betrothed’s formerly faithful dog was missing from his master’s side.

She couldn’t bear it. Any time there was the possibility of being in his presence, the thought brought her almost to a panic. Hour after hour, again and again, she felt that dread, and it had gotten to the point where it never fully receded. Where every footfall she heard made her heart race, and every new entry into a room made her flinch. The fear that she might come face to face with him without warning, that she would have to meet his gaze, perhaps speak to him, and yet allow none of her confusion or embarrassment about what had happened to show in her expression or in her eyes… She couldn’t bear it.

And yet she’d had no notion of seeking him out, either. She didn’t _want_ to see him, she just… Needed to, to have it over and done. When she’d heard the two maids sent to turn down her sheets mention the Hound, she’d listened, and when their conversation consisted of very detailed directions to a room “three doors down from the king’s dog”, the insane idea had taken hold of her. Even after they’d gone, she couldn’t rid herself of it. She’d waited and waited until the hour of the wolf, donned a plain cloak, grabbed her dagger, and followed the instructions the two women had unknowingly given.

It was more than foolishness. It was madness. But if it calmed the panic she could no longer fight off, it would be worth it. She couldn’t stand another day of waiting, no, not even another hour. She couldn’t stand preparing and preparing and preparing for a confrontation that never came. She _wouldn’t_. She was a wolf, and she wasn’t afraid of a dog.

Or so she’d told herself. It was one thing to think so in the safety of her own quarters, another to believe it when faced with the reality of the man. He was almost impossibly big and broad, barely fitting in his oversized bed, his bare chest and arms so heavily scarred and heavily muscled. It made her think of the way he’d towered over her, the strength she’d felt when he’d held her still. The way his entire body had pinned her to the wall when he’d… As he’d… Gods, she didn’t even know anymore. Even in her own mind she vacillated between thinking of their encounter as something that had happened between them and something that had been done to her.

She’d dreamed of it. Not nightmares. Dreams, in which he was as rough and coarse and crude as always, as he had been that night, and yet his hands were gentle and his touch was… Not unpleasant. In sleep her body remembered that building sensation she’d felt, that instinctive knowledge that something glorious was just out of reach. She remembered the hot press of his scarred mouth on hers, his fingers between her legs, his eyes so desperate and pained as he’d taken his pleasure inside of her, and whatever those things made her feel it wasn’t fear, or mostly not.

There _was_ fear now, however, as she stood there watching him sleep. Other men- most men- she supposed must look vulnerable in slumber, but the Hound did not. His scarred face was still terrifying, his expression less relaxed than she’d expected, as though behind his eyelids he was glaring. He looked dangerous and powerful, and not like someone she wanted to disturb. In all honesty, she did feel slightly calmer now that she’d seen him, now that the shock of the memories his face brought to her mind had faded. Perhaps it wasn’t necessary for her to speak to him, perhaps this was all she needed.

The wolf in her was disgusted by her timidity, wanted her to wake him and rail at him and make him understand what he had done. But she didn’t really understand it herself, didn’t know how she felt, and anyway he might kill her. He’d threatened to, once. So she forced that recklessness down. It had been madness to come, and now it was madness to stay. There was no shame in a strategic retreat, she decided. She turned carefully towards the door, stepping as quietly as she could, keeping her eyes trained on his motionless form. He hadn’t stirred even once before, when she’d entered so noiselessly…

Suddenly, he was sitting up, turning directly toward her, and the pale light glinted off the blade he held high above his shoulder. She’d never imagined a man so massive could move with such speed. Though the dark made her invisible she knew somehow his aim was true.

“Just because I can’t see you doesn’t mean I can’t send my steel through your fucking throat,” he growled menacingly. “Show yourself, you buggering bastard.”

She was afraid. So afraid, but it couldn’t be helped. So she inhaled deeply and stepped forward, out of the shadows and into the puddle of moonlight next to his bed. With shaking hands, she pulled back the hood of her unadorned woolen cloak. For but an instant his expression was one of pure shock, eyes wide, mouth gaping, and then a carefully blank mask slammed into place with the finality of a hastily-lowered portcullis.

“Gods, girl, I might have killed you!” He sounded just as furious as she’d expected him to be, but thankfully lowered his weapon.

It was at that very moment that she realized she had no idea what to say. She had no idea how to confront anyone, least of all him. She fell back on the only armor she’d ever had: her courtesy. “Forgive me, my lord, I-”

“What in all of the Seven Hells are you doing here?!” he demanded. “If getting fucked bloody against a wall isn’t enough to keep you in your room at night-”

She could feel herself blushing at his words, suddenly remembering the blood smeared on her thighs, after, when she’d undressed in front of her mirror. There had been bruises too, most still visible, but it was the red against the white of her skin that proved something irrevocable had happened. Between them or to her, she still wasn’t sure. He’d said he’d always wanted to be the one to… Well, to do that, and she wasn’t sure if the thrill she felt at the thought was exciting or terrifying. Unthinkingly, she slid her hand into her pocket and gripped the hilt of her dagger, running her thumb across the engraved motto on the crossguard and drawing strength from it.

He noticed her movement, and she could almost see the lightning-quick analysis happening, his warrior’s instincts so finely honed that even that small gesture spoke of danger to him. Without a word, he reached out and took her wrist in that iron grip she remembered so well. It hurt, but there was something about his fingers on her skin, something she couldn’t define, something that made her heart pound. He pulled her hand and the dagger clutched there out of her pocket, and spent a moment examining the blade. And then he laughed, the sound completely without humor.

“So you’ve come to take your revenge, little bird?” he asked, voice mocking, steely eyes full of scorn. Pulling her ever closer, he brought the point of the dagger to rest just above his pulse. “Go on. I won’t stop you.”

“I didn’t-” she began, suddenly realizing that a single drop of blood was making its way down his throat. She watched it, entranced, before coming to her senses and dropping the dagger. It clattered to the floor. 

“That’s not… I didn’t bring it for that,” she whispered.

“Then you’re a fool,” he said bluntly, releasing her hand so unexpectedly that she swayed in place. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know,” she answered, distressed. Thinking back, she really wasn’t sure how she’d expected this meeting to go, but she didn’t believe this was what she’d intended. “But you’ve not been to court since we… Since you…” She couldn’t bring herself to say it. Didn’t know what to call it.

“I know what I did,” he snapped. His face was distorted by anger, shadows hiding the good side of his face so all she could see was twisted flesh and raging eyes. But there was something in them, something deeper than the anger in his words. Before she could decipher it, his gaze cut away from her. “You couldn’t bear to look at my face even before. Thought it best to never trouble you with it again.”

“But I can bear to look.” Her voice was quiet, almost meant for her ears alone. She proved it then, taking in the sight of his scars without wavering, though they still frightened her. “Do you not remember? You told me to look at you when… You said… And I did. That night.”

Grimacing as if in pain, he closed his eyes briefly. “I know what I said. Why have you come? I thought you’d be relieved to be spared my company. You’ve no love for it, I know, now more than ever I warrant.”

“I was relieved,” she admitted. “That first day I did not… The thought of seeing you, I could not-”

He glared her into silence, the burned corner of his mouth twitching. “So the little bird is ordering the dog to stay away. I have been. I will, believe that. You’ll never see my ugly face again and be glad of it.”

“I meant nothing of the kind, my lord, truly. I needed to see you.” She thought hard, wringing her hands restlessly, struggling for a way to make him understand what she had felt these past four days. “Waiting to see you, always expecting you, it made me… Tense, and the tension never abates. I once heard father tell Robb of the feeling of waiting for an ambush, the fear of a battle lying in wait…”

“What do you know of battle, girl?” She hated the way he spat that word at her, hated the way it made her feel stupid and small.

She looked at him steadily. “More than I did four days ago.”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Get out.”

“My lord-”

“Enough with your bloody chirping and your false courtesy!” he snarled, standing abruptly. She looked up and up at him, taken aback by the wild look on his face, brows lowered, teeth bared in something that was not a smile. His fists were clenched tight and she could feel the fury radiating off of him in almost visible waves. “You know as well as I that I’m no lord, and no Ser either. I’m a dog and I’ve proven it to you so spare me.”

Sansa sighed deeply, suddenly exhausted. His anger, his pain, drained her, and she would be happy enough to leave as he’d ordered. But there was one thing yet to say.

“I do not wish for you to absent yourself from court,” she confessed quietly. “Having Ser Boros or Ser Meryn at Joffrey’s back terrifies me far more than you in their stead. Even… After.”

“You really are a stupid little bird,” he growled, taking her upper arms in that iron grip she remembered so well. His hands were warm and rough on her skin, and so strong. “You think you’re _safe_ with me? Saf _er_? You’re not safe with anyone, least of all me. You think a man like me cares what he does to you? That a man like my brother cares?”

She shook her head, thinking of the Mountain That Rides, of the way he’d cleaved his horse’s head from its neck with one blow before turning on Ser Loras at her father’s tourney so long ago. The Hound had stopped him, then, protected the defenseless knight the way knights were supposed to protect everyone else. And he hated his brother, she knew that, knew why.

“You are nothing like your brother.”

“You’re wrong.” His voice was suddenly low and intense, and he released one of her arms to cup her chin in his large hand and hold her so she couldn’t look away. “Gregor takes what he wants with no remorse, no regrets… Do you wonder why I haven’t apologized? It would be courteous, would it not? Fuck your courtesy. A dog will never lie to you, I told you that.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I can’t apologize because _I’m not sorry_ ,” he hissed. “It was worth it for the feel of your tight little cunt, even if my head ends up on a bloody spike next to your lord father’s.”

The darkness of his expression made her reel back, trying to wrench herself from his grip but failing, and he lowered his head until he was so close and all she could see. She could feel his heat and smell the wine on him, but there was something beneath that, something indefinable that made her want to lean closer.

“Don’t you remember, little bird?” he asked, voice low and rough. “Those sweet little breathy moans as I fucked you… And you told me you liked it when I did it deep and hard. And after, your hands in my hair… Enough to let me pretend you wanted it...”

He gave her a heated look that stripped her bare as surely as Joffrey had had her stripped before the court. It was the kind of look Littlefinger often gave her, though the Hound didn’t make her skin crawl the way her mother’s old friend did. But the way he laughed, so harsh and bitter, it made her shiver. “No, I’m not sorry.”

His eyes sharpened on her, and she felt suddenly that he was searching for something in her face. She didn’t know what it could be, didn’t know what to say, but after a moment she knew whatever he was looking for, he hadn't found it. With a sigh, he released her and sat heavily on the edge of his bed, ran both hands through his long hair before pinning her eyes with his. The desolation there was almost painful to her. “Gods know I want to be. For hurting you, for… What I did. And I’ve tried but I’m not. Even now…”

“Even now…?”

“Even now, I’d do it again,” he said, and somehow it was both a promise and a threat. He chuckled darkly, and the heat was back in his eyes. “The only thing I can manage to be sorry for is my failure to bury my face between your sweet thighs when I had the chance. I should have licked you until you screamed, made you like it. I could, little bird. I could make you love it.”

The shock of his words, of the mental image his words gave her, made her freeze. Surely people didn’t…? But then he was pulling her close again, turning her and pressing her back into his mattress, all before she had even the chance to react.

Again there was a promise, again a threat: “I will.”                                           

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure if this counts as "plot" but there will be some. Eventually. Maybe? Not in the next chapter though. Um, obviously.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot advances not at all. v2.0

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be warned: there's lots of noncon up in this dubcon, mkay?

With that same impossible speed she’d noted before, the Hound had her on her back and her skirts around her waist almost before she realized she was no longer standing. Her legs hung off the edge of his bed, barely skimming the floor thanks to its height, and he leaned over her, one rough hand on her bare knee, the other fighting with the clasp of her cloak. Sansa had known the feeling of his hard, heavy warrior’s body pinning hers before, but somehow it was different like this, lying prone. Helpless though she had been against the wall, she felt it even more acutely now that he surrounded her, eclipsing the pale moonlight streaming through the window with his broad shoulders. He bent his head so that his long hair fell like a curtain around them, and though she couldn’t see his face she could sense his cold amusement as she struggled instinctively against him.

It was futile, of course. He was stronger than anyone she’d ever known, and held her down effortlessly using only his own weight. Still, she arched her back and lifted her hips, trying to get enough leverage to force him off of her, pushing against his muscled chest with all her might. His only reaction was to press her deeper and deeper into the mattress, until she could feel every inch of him covering her and his manhood hard between her legs. It rubbed indecently against her as she fought, or rather she rubbed indecently against him, and she moaned involuntarily as pleasure arced through her from that point of contact.

All thoughts of escape- all thoughts of anything- fled. Somehow, she couldn’t stop writhing beneath him. Her mind was completely void of anything but the desire to feel him like this, and she gasped as he thrust against her again and again. She couldn’t help but imagine how intense the sensations would be without his breeches and her smallclothes between them, then hated herself for imagining it. But it felt so unbelievably good. He took her hips roughly in his large hands and directed her motions until she fell into his rhythm, and that felt even better.

“Yes, little bird, just like that,” he rasped into her ear. The harsh timbre of his voice and his warm breath against her skin sent shivers down her spine, but not of fear. “I want you to move just like that when I’m inside you.”

His words forced her back to reality. She was supposed to be fighting him off, defending her tattered virtue, not grinding against him the way she imagined some cheap Flea Bottom whore would. She was supposed to be a lady, and the thought of him having her again was supposed to fill her with distress. In a way it did. She remembered the confusion and chaos in her mind when he first took her, the sharp pain deep within and the blood on her thighs, and didn’t want it. So she froze beneath him.

“You’re right,” he murmured, as though through her stillness she’d made some kind of suggestion. “Much more of this and I’ll be making a right mess of your pretty cunt, and then I’ll never get my taste of it.”

She didn’t quite understand what he meant. Before, he had said… But surely not. He released her hips and stopped moving above her, though she could still feel his throbbing length practically burning through the barriers between them. Breathing hard, he tore at the fasteners of her cloak in frustration before finally defeating them and turning his attention to the ties of her southron-style dress.

The raw silk gown wrapped around her like a robe and was held closed with nothing more than a few bows, strategically placed. He let out a low growl when he realized they were double-knotted, realized his large blunt fingers were unsuited to the task of untying them, and he grabbed her hands urgently, pressing them to her chest until she understood he meant for her to do it herself. Hesitantly, she worked at the knots. Her own fingers were trembling so that it was nearly as difficult for her to complete the task as it had been for him.

Impatiently he waited, one hand stroking eagerly at the soft flesh of her thighs, the other pushing her hair away from her face and touching any bare skin he could reach: her cheek; her lips; her throat, where he rested his palm just long enough for it to feel like a threat. There was so much desperation in him, in the feel of his hands on her, and his insistent touch built some kind of fire inside of her, stoking it ever higher. Clumsy in his haste, his fingers trailed down to follow her progress with her ties, and he pulled her dress open to uncover more of her pale skin with each vanquished knot. He ran his hands over every newly-revealed inch of her, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he was bruising her with his intensity. When the last bow was finally undone she could just hear his sound of satisfaction and relief as he was finally able to unwrap her completely. 

Sansa shuddered with the cold and something else as he parted the edges of the fabric and pulled them aside, brushing over her silk-clad breasts. They felt full and heavy and ached somehow, nipples raised to him as though begging for his attention. The Hound looked down and went very still above her. She realized suddenly that with the way the feeble light came through the window at his back, her features must be illuminated just as much as his were cast in shadow. He could see her body through her thin silk as well as if she were naked, she knew it because she could feel his eyes resting on her curves with an almost palpable touch.

He took a deep breath, as though fighting for control, then fell upon her like the dog he said he was. Pressing cruel, stinging kisses to her collarbone, he dragged the neckline of her shift down with his teeth, exposing her bare breasts to his hands and mouth. It was overwhelming, the way he groped and squeezed, the way he assaulted her nipples with his tongue before sucking each one firmly in turn. She remembered that from the time before, but then it had been through the fabric of her gown, and this was with nothing between them, with the dark wet heat of his mouth and the glide of his tongue driving her swiftly insane. As much as she struggled to contain her soft cries, it was impossible, every scrape of his teeth drawing them out of her.

She honestly couldn’t tell if she was disappointed or relieved when he shifted his focus and began to trail his parted lips down over her stomach, couldn’t tell if he’d been giving her pleasure or pain. There was still silk in his way, and he hastily shoved it up around her ribcage to trail his mouth and tongue over this new, sensitive flesh. She squirmed under his lips in something between ecstasy and discomfort as he kissed and nipped at the curve of her belly and jut of her hipbone. He was breathing hard, panting against her skin, making wild little noises in the back of his throat while she gasped and writhed beneath him.

Then his hands were on her smallclothes, ripping them away as though they were nothing, and clamping tightly on her knees, trying to push them apart. She froze. His face was so close, and he’d said… And the way the light was, if she did what he wanted, he’d _see_ … She could feel panic rise within her as she pressed her knees shut and couldn’t help resisting the way he was attempting to wrench them open.

After a few moments, he looked up at her, silver eyes glinting in the dark. “Spread your legs for me now, girl, or I’ll make you.”

She shook her head, tried to clench them tighter together, but he was already forcing them apart. The increased pressure he exerted was impossible to fight, and she quickly found herself lying there with her legs as wide as he’d wanted them. For a moment, she couldn’t help but imagine how she must look, hair tousled around her face, nipples hard and dark and bruised, legs open to expose the copper curls between them and the hidden parts she couldn’t conceal from him. He was kneeling before her now, her body pulled to the very edge of the bed, legs thrown over his wide shoulders. Blushing, she knew he could see everything, and she could tell he liked it by the way his heavy breathing hitched as he looked at her.

He clutched at her hip to hold her still and skimmed his free hand over her inner thigh before stroking her roughly between her legs. It might have hurt, except his fingers slipped easily along her folds, and she realized that this was what had happened last time, that she was wet for him. She condemned her own body for a traitor, but the way he was touching her felt good, more than good, though his fingers were impatient and far from gentle. Every now and then he would push against that spot she remembered from before, that part of her that seemed to take even the faintest touch and amplify it a hundred fold, and she would gasp, arching up as much as she could in spite of the way he was gripping her.

Her gasp turned to a cry, half shocked and half… Something else, when he buried his face between her thighs the way he had said he would. Gods, but she hadn’t truly believed him, couldn’t imagine anyone doing this... But now she understood why a woman would want it. It felt better than anything she could ever have imagined, better than anything he’d done to her so far. She could feel his scars pressed against her inner thigh, and the smug little twist of his lips at the sounds she made, but none of it mattered compared to the pleasure that built inside of her as he laved that mysterious little spot again and again with his tongue.

In a strange way, it made her think of the way he had kissed her, before, mouth open, tongue sliding against hers, though of course it was shockingly different, too. This time his mouth was hot and open over her most secret place, his tongue gliding between her folds and even dipping inside her. He seemed to revel in her wetness, lapping at her opening as though he could drink her dry, nibbling at bits of flesh so sensitive she wondered how she wasn’t in pain. Then he shoved two fingers deep inside her and she was, a little. Her body was still sore and bruised from the first time he’d taken her, still unused to any intrusion. Yet somehow that aching soreness only accentuated the bliss of his tongue elsewhere.

The pleasure was so close now, just out of reach, and she wanted it so desperately even his heavy hand pressing her down couldn’t stop her from lifting herself to him. She wanted _more_ , though more of what, she wasn’t exactly sure, more of his lips and teeth and tongue and fingers and… Everything, more of everything. Just as she was sure the peak she was climbing towards was only seconds away, he pulled back abruptly and all the anticipation that had been building within her seems to fall in on itself. It didn’t dissipate, but tied itself into a hard knot inside of her just waiting to be undone. She nearly sobbed in frustration. His eyes glittered up at her, dark and desperate, almost as desperate as she felt.

“What are you-? Why-” she began, her voice lower and rougher than she was used to, more like his. She silenced herself when she realized she didn’t know what to ask. She wanted something but didn’t know what it was, needed something from him but didn’t know that either.

The Hound brought his body over her, covering her once more, and she tensed. “I want to see your face,” he rasped. “I want to feel you when you come for me.”

She could feel _him_ , now, the skin of his bare chest pressed to her own, the crisp hairs that covered him teasing her nipples, and her entire body was so over-sensitized it almost hurt. His flesh was smooth and warm except where he was scarred. His cock was smooth and warm too, and as massive and hard as the rest of him as she felt it against her inner thigh. He bucked his hips, moving against her the way he had in the beginning, and his naked flesh slid over hers to reawaken and add to the ecstasy that had been building before he’d callously withdrawn. She gasped, and sighed, and _wanted_ … But hated herself for wanting.

He positioned himself at her entrance and pushed forward with no more preamble, no teasing. It hurt, nearly as much as it had the first time, and she hadn’t expected that, though perhaps she should have. Her body resisted him more than she dared herself, but he was still opening her, invading her, sinking into her so deeply and filling her so completely in one powerful thrust that she couldn’t help but cry out, high and keening. Burying his face in the crook of her neck and exhaling sharply, he groaned in response, and she could feel the vibrations of his harsh voice all through her.

“Gods, you’re still so bloody _tight_.” He was breathless, almost pained, and shaking.

She knew the truth of his words because she could feel it, could feel the thickness of his manhood stretching her painfully. “I apologize,” she whispered, because apologies came easily to her and she didn’t know what to say. There was fear in her now, again, and tears gathered in her eyes because she remembered what happened next and knew it was going to hurt. “If you could, please… Gently, my lord.”

“Always so damned courteous, aren’t you? Even when you’re getting fucked,” he taunted, though his voice was strained. “‘Yes, ser’,” – he pulled out almost completely, slowly, then slid back in, kissed her neck – “‘no, my lord’,” – again – “‘please ser’…” – again – “Will you ask me nicely for your pleasure, little bird? Will you thank me when I give it to you?”

His words came to her as if from very far away, barely intelligible over the pounding of her own heart and the rushing of her blood in her ears. He was licking and kissing and sucking at her neck, and pushing into her in an almost lazy rhythm, in and out so deliberately. It hurt as much as she’d known it would, though she could tell by the way he moved and the way he held himself that he was being careful of her. There were bright flashes of pain like a knife between her legs, but it also felt… Not enjoyable, but… She didn’t know, couldn’t explain. All of that pleasure and anticipation he’d built in her with his shockingly clever mouth was still there, and though each thrust pained her it also seemed to nudge her closer to whatever edge he’d shown her. With every slide of his cock she was closer and closer to going over, though she knew not what was on the other side.

“Will you?” he demanded again, the twisted, scarred corner of his lips trailing over her cheek.

“If it please you, my lord,” she gasped as he adjusted his hold on her hip, angling her in a way that sent sparks of sensation from her head to her toes, though she wasn’t certain if the sensation was good or no. More good than bad, she thought, the way it had been the first time, but not enough, never enough. The spot above her opening that he’d lavished such attention on earlier still ached and throbbed, and she wondered what would happen if he touched her there again, if that would somehow forge all of these conflicting feelings back into the ecstasy she somehow knew was waiting if she could but reach it.

He laughed. She could feel it against her, through her, in her, and she wondered what could possibly be amusing, and how his face looked when he laughed. Softly, he whispered her name with a strange kind of fondness and longing she’d never encountered before. “Oh, Sansa-” 

And then he was pressing his mouth ardently to hers, his taste almost the same as she remembered but sharper, and sweeter, and she realized that was her own essence on his lips. He kissed her deeply and didn’t stop kissing her, not even as he began moving faster and faster inside her, not even as he stroked his free hand down over the indent of her waist and the curve of her hip before slipping it between her thighs. It was only when she wondered if he’d ever let her breathe again, and if she even cared, that he finally raised his head and looked down into her face. His fingers were moving _so close_ to where she ached most intensely, teasing her hidden flesh, and she almost sobbed with need.

“ _Please_ , ser-” she begged, and was aware in some distant corner of her mind that later, after, she would regret it. But at this moment, with his cock deep inside her, his hand between her legs and herself walking a sword’s edge between pleasure and pain, she couldn’t bring herself to care.

“You know I’m no ser,” he answered, his voice taut near to breaking, but nevertheless he finally touched her just the way she’d been needing him to, brushing his thumb over her gently, so gently.

She fell apart. Every muscle in her body tightened and released, and bliss flowed through her veins the same way wine warmed her blood whenever she was allowed to drink it. It spread within her and lifted her up until she was both flying and falling all at once but loved them equally. She could hear him murmuring her name, over and over, could feel him thrusting hard and filling her with his seed, and it only forced her higher. And when she came down it was like shattering but beautiful, and through it all he was there, following her, holding her together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come, it was just getting too long to continue.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like, what if porn IS the plot?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All hail LadyCyprus, my glorious partner in crime :D She was super-helpful in getting my head on straight about this chapter and the story in general so if you don't hate it, you have her to thank.
> 
> Please heed the warnings from earlier chapters, they are still applicable.

The Hound stayed on top of her, inside of her, for what felt like ages, ruined face buried in the crook of her neck, the ridges of his scars pressing against her throat. It was strange and strangely comforting, because it was undeniably _him_ , although why that should comfort her she couldn’t say. Every now and then she felt a gentle brush over her collarbone, a brief touch of what could only be his lips on her skin, and she responded by running her fingers through his damp hair. Despite these slight caresses she remained as silent as he did, catching her breath just as he was. And thinking, too much perhaps.

She was just so… Confused. She hadn’t wanted it, had she? She didn’t think so, but then she’d pleaded with him… And the way he’d touched her, the way he’d made her feel… She hadn’t known, hadn’t realized, that women could reach that kind of pleasure as well as men. If she had known, would she have wanted it then? He hadn’t given her a choice, not really, not either time, but with this… Gods, she was ashamed to think that if he _had_ given her a choice, she’d still have given him everything he wanted.

What did that make her? She didn’t know. It wasn’t ladylike, that was certain; she couldn’t imagine her lady mother behaving so wantonly, especially with a man who wasn’t her husband, wasn’t anything to her, really, the second son of a minor house, scarred and bitter and… Kind, sometimes. But he was a dog, he’d said so himself, and for him to do this to her, for him to make her feel this way, was a degradation. He dishonored her with his touch, she knew that. And she was rather afraid she didn’t care. Not when it felt so… There were no words for how it felt. She couldn’t think straight, not after what had happened, not with him still filling her, surrounding her. Not with his taste on her lips and his heart beating in time with hers.

Just as she was thinking that lying here like this wasn’t uncomfortable, that as long as he braced himself to keep from crushing her didn’t mind remaining beneath him, he rolled over and withdrew from her, sitting up to rest at the edge of the bed with his elbows propped on his knees, head in his hands, somehow all in one smooth motion. She could feel the rush of his seed as it left her, the stickiness on her thighs, and shivered, remembering the heat of it when he’d found his release inside her.

“Is that what you wanted, little bird? What you came here for?” he asked flatly, and she could hear the familiar bitterness once more. She didn’t understand how he could do that, how he could be touching her and kissing her and helping her to fly one moment, then speaking to her this way the next. “Maybe you’re a wolf after all, a wolf-bitch in heat, desperate enough to lie with a dog.” He laughed, but there was no humor in it.

She sat up in shock, gasping softly, surprised by the sharp lance of pain in her chest at his words. Did he think that of her, really? Never mind that she’d been thinking similarly unflattering things about herself; he was the one who’d pinned her down and shoved his face between her legs before… Doing what to her? She didn’t like the word “fucking”, except sometimes when he said it, but she supposed that’s what had happened. Still, he was the one who wanted it, the one who started it, and she hadn’t expected him to judge her. And gods knew he had no right.

“Oh, does that upset you, _my lady_? I’ll tell you true, I’ve never had a whore so wet and eager.” He was angry about it, she realized, angry at her.

“That’s not fair,” she said, and her voice sounded small but steady – a miracle, considering she could feel tears running slowly down her cheeks. But she felt detached from them somehow, didn’t feel the need to whimper or sob. “You’re the one who… The one who said you’d make me…” she trailed off, unable to complete the sentence. It was too humiliating.

“I said I’d make you love it. And I did, didn’t I?” he taunted.

“I don’t know.”

“Liar.”

“What does it matter? If I… If I did, why are you so upset to have succeeded? Why do you blame me for it?” She hated feeling so young, so childlike, but he did that to her sometimes, made her feel stupid and ridiculous.

He turned to her then, his wide shoulders angling toward her, and she felt again how large he was, how tall and broad and strong. She couldn’t help blushing, couldn’t help thinking of how it had felt to have him overwhelming her, pressing her hard into his mattress. She hoped the darkness hid the flush of red she could feel flooding her cheeks. And when he grabbed her chin roughly between his fingers, she hoped he couldn’t feel the heat under her skin.

“Who were you thinking of?” he demanded, pinching her hard, eyes narrowed, teeth bared. “What pretty knight had you dripping all over my face when I was tasting your cunt?”

She turned away, wrenching herself free from his grasp and staring into the darkness of his room. Even after having experienced what he referenced, even knowing his description was… accurate, his crude words only served to make her blush all the more. “I wasn’t –”

“It was my cock deep inside you, girl, my fingers making you come, as much as you’d like to forget it,” he continued, just as though she hadn’t attempted to interrupt at all. “When you begged so prettily, you were begging _me_ , not some ser. How disappointing it must have been when you opened your eyes,” he added with disgust.

“Why are you – what do you want from me?” she whispered, still not daring to look at him.

“I’ve had it, haven’t I?” he responded, mockingly. She turned back then to look at him, only to realize he was staring at her legs, just below the curls concealing her from him, staring at the liquid glistening there. “I like the way you look with my seed on your thighs. You like it too, you finished when I filled you with it.”

He reached for her then, and she tensed as she felt his fingers tracing roughly from her knee up between her legs. She clamped them together but that only trapped his hand between them. “I’ve been careless with this,” he mused, almost conversationally, even as delved into her, sliding two fingers past her sensitive entrance. Between her desire and his release, he met no resistance. “You like it but I shouldn’t spill myself inside you.”

“What are you doing?” Her voice was breathy and dazed, confused as she was, and she couldn’t help it because whatever he was doing to her felt amazing, rubbing something inside of her that made her writhe and whimper and lift her hips, trying to force him deeper. But he was so upset with her, why would he… She didn’t understand him, couldn’t help repeating her earlier question. “What do you want from me?”

Suddenly he withdrew his fingers and grasped her tight around the waist, hauling her into his lap so that she was straddling him, her bare breasts pressed hard against his muscled chest. Where before he’d been shrouded in darkness, only her own face illuminated, now the situation was reversed. She could see him clearly, every ridge and crevice of his scar, the hole where his ear should have been, the twisted corner of his mouth. It was as gruesome as ever it had been, but she forced herself to look. She didn’t know how he’d react if she looked away but she knew he wouldn’t appreciate it. And anyway she’d already proven she could look at him; this was no different. She made the calculated choice to reach for him, to cup his cheek and feel the distorted texture, knowing somehow that he would like it. The burned corner of his lips twitched slightly, just once, and she knew she’d been right. But it didn’t soothe him.

“I want to fuck you just like this, with your eyes on my face,” he growled, adjusting her position so that the head of his cock nudged against her slit. His harsh, rasping voice sent shivers down her spine, just as it always had, but it didn’t scare her anymore, or not only. “I want you _watching_. And when I make you come, I want you moaning my name.”

He placed the pad of his thumb on the fullness of her lower lip, rubbing gently until she could almost taste the salt of his skin. “You do know my name, don’t you, girl?”

Hesitantly, she nodded. She knew it. _Sandor Clegane_. She’d never, ever spoken it aloud, and somehow, the thought of doing so disturbed her more than anything else. It was strange, the way her mind clung to certain vestiges of propriety even under circumstances such as this. She almost wanted to deny him, to tell him it would be too familiar, but then she was lowering herself down on to him, his swollen tip entering and opening her again with far less pain this time, and she knew nothing could be too familiar after this.

She moaned helplessly as she impaled herself slowly with his stiff length, her own weight as well as the pressure he was exerting forcing her down further. No matter how she tried, she couldn’t look away from the intensity of his eyes. They were hard and angry and almost glowing with the reflected moonlight streaming over her shoulder, but they held her as surely as his arms wrapped around her did.

“That’s right,” he murmured. “Don’t close your eyes, and don’t stop. Take it all.”

She couldn’t refuse, she knew that, but she also knew she wasn’t sure she could do as he wanted. She was so _full_ already, stretched almost beyond her limits, and yet he was still pressing her down, filling her even more. It felt… Impossible, both ecstatic and excruciating, and either way she wanted to let her eyes drift shut, to focus on the feeling and decide for herself what it was. The heaviness of his gaze wouldn’t allow it. She could only meet it and let him to look into her while she sank down until he was buried to the hilt, could only wonder what it was he saw while she did, when she didn’t understand what she was experiencing herself.

He kept her still for a long moment, fingers biting into the soft flesh of her hips as he held her down, her body adjusting to the intrusion of his, and she permitted her hand to drift from his cheek to brush his long dark hair back from his scar. The fire in his eyes flared at this, burning higher and hotter, but he didn’t stop her from touching him, didn’t prevent her from cradling the back of his head almost tenderly.

Then he thrust up into her forcefully and all pretense of tenderness was gone. She tangled her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck, holding tightly for dear life, and cried out at the heart-stopping sensation, the pleasure and the pain of taking every inch of him deeper inside of her. She could feel it radiating throughout her body from where they were joined, heat in her veins and in her heart as her breath came in short gasps, and she moved above him as much as she could, fighting his hold on her only out of a need to be closer, to feel more.

Without warning, he broke their stare, the suddenness of her freedom from his dark eyes sending her reeling as he looked to her full breasts, watching them bounce and sway with every movement. He slid his large hand up from her waist to cup one, to roll the stiff point of her nipple between his callused fingers. She sank her teeth into her lower lip as his touch sent a shock of sensation to her core, fierce and bright, and she could feel herself tightening around him.

“Gods,” she whispered brokenly, senselessly. “Please, _please_ …”

What she was asking for she didn’t know, but he did and he gave it to her, pounding into her with a punishing rhythm, each thrust nearly breaking her with its strength but feeling so good, so unbelievably good. He was rubbing something inside her each time he withdrew and returned, something incredibly sensitive that she remembered from the first time he’d taken her, and it ignited a hot heavy ache inside of her, low and throbbing in her belly. She gasped as he moved within her again and again.

“Yes,” he hissed, his breathing as labored as hers. “You like that, don’t you? My face isn’t so bad with my cock deep in your cunt, is it? No pretty knight will fuck you harder, girl, believe that.”

Before she could even contemplate a response – not that she thought he wanted one, in truth – he slid one hand from her waist down her belly and between her legs. He let out a low groan as he found her entrance stretched tight around his own steel solid flesh before moving his questing fingers higher, circling them around the secret spot he knew. He caressed it lightly, almost gently, but that careful delicate touch sent an intense bolt through her, mingling with the bliss of him thrusting inside her and drawing every muscle in her body taut. The wave of pleasure she remembered from before was building and gathering like the tide rushing in to meet the shore, and she wanted nothing more than to drown in it here like this with him.

“My lord, please… I can’t –”

“Not a lord,” he bit out, teeth clenched, and she realized that he was as close to cresting as she, or closer, and trying to hold back. “You want to come for me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she gasped, even though she wasn’t quite sure what he was talking about, but she thought it must be this, the pleasure she was reaching for. She was so close, so terribly close, but not close enough, and she knew only he could take her under. “Yes, yes, yes.”

“Give me what I want,” he commanded, but really he was begging.

She leaned near, buried her head in the crook of his neck where she could see his pulse throbbing madly. “Sandor,” she whispered, enjoying the feel of this untested word on her tongue, so similar to her own name but harder, harsher, as he was. “Please, make me –”

He grabbed her hair, digging his fingers into it and tugging her away from him. “No. No, look at me!”

She did. The moonlight fell mercilessly on his face, highlighting every scar, but it was his eyes she feared. Before they’d been opaque, two walls, but now they were windows. She didn’t understand what she saw through them, but she felt it all keenly, felt the aching vulnerability of it. He wanted his name, she knew that, but the depths of his eyes seem to be begging for so much more, and as much as she couldn’t identify exactly what he needed she was sure she didn’t have it in her to give it to him. But his name, she could give him that.

“Sandor,” she said again, softly, and his fingers convulsed in her hair and against her skin. “Please, make me come.”

“Now,” he groaned, resting his damp forehead against hers, pressing hard on the aching flesh between her legs, thrusting hard inside of her. “ _Now_ , Sansa, gods –” 

The wave crested and broke, flooding her with bliss so acute it was nearly painful, and her whole body felt alive. She could feel him, too, coming apart in her arms, could feel him shaking against her and pulsing inside her, and she whispered his name over and over, the way he was whispering hers, just because she knew he would like it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A wild plot appeared! But a very thin one...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year everyone! I hope 2015 is filled with light and love and the Winds of Winter, damnit!
> 
> Personally these last few months have been really hard for me, and I apologize for the lack of updates. Hopefully 2015 will see an improvement there. I really want to thank my lovely beta LadyCyprus for all of her support, not just with writing but with life in general. If this chapter is at all worth reading it's only because she refused to let me give up on it and I am very grateful :)
> 
> Please keep all the warnings in mind, they are still in effect.

The sun beat relentlessly down on the royal pavilion, and Sansa shifted uncomfortably in her heavy gown. As a girl in Winterfell she’d always imagined summer silks to be so light, so thin, and she supposed that compared to even the finest wools worn in the north they were. But today, seated next to her betrothed, her king, and looking out at the tourney grounds, she could feel the fabric she wore sticking unpleasantly to her skin, weighing down her limbs. The foolish Sansa who’d left the north for King’s Landing so eagerly would have been crestfallen had she known the truth of these southron dresses.

Well, it was a minor disappointment compared to others, as she’d been foolish about so many things. About tourneys, for one, always imagining them to be glorious spectacles of chivalry and gallantry. She knew well enough now that they were nothing more than men in metal shells hurting each other for the entertainment of the smallfolk and highborn alike. Some men won, some were injured, some died, and there was nothing particularly glorious about any of it. Even less glorious was something like this, a half-hearted and poorly attended excuse for a competition, thrown together hastily to satisfy the king’s whim. If not for his express command, she would surely not be here now. 

“How many more will my dog defeat?” Joffrey asked, voice tight with excitement, just as though this were the Tourney of the Hand all over again and there were 40,000 gold dragons at stake. He loved nothing more than seeing bloodshed, unless it was seeing his beloved Hound doing the shedding. With each opponent the hulking man struck down, Joffrey’s repulsive smile grew ever wider.

“Surely there is no greater warrior in all the Seven Kingdoms than your sworn shield, Your Grace, for him to deserve his place at your side,” she responded flatly, as though reading aloud from a particularly boring book. The king wasn’t listening, anyway, and she knew well enough what he wished to hear on the off-chance that he was.

“Of course there isn’t,” Joffrey snapped. “See now what he does to my uncle’s pet sellsword… Perhaps he’ll do the same to your traitor brother in time.”

“I pray so, Your Grace.”

She squinted against the glare of the sun and looked in the general direction of the two men fighting below. There was no real need to watch when she already knew who the victor would be, yet the Hound drew her eye nevertheless. He fought brutally, ferociously, the strength in each blow obvious by the way each of his opponents fell before him (and sometimes did not rise). All morning there had been not a single man to match him or withstand him. Yet it was more than that, too. There was more than savagery in his movements; there was control, economy of motion and a kind of deadly grace that made him nearly beautiful, especially in victory.

He had looked just like that, she realized as something twisted deep in her belly. With his head thrown back and an almost-smile on his face, he had looked just like that the last time he had been inside of her. She could perfectly recall his expression of triumph and the feel of him, of his fingers branding bruises into her hips, of his hardness impaling her as she sank down inch by agonizing inch until he filled her. _Take it all._ The remembered words caused a deep ache between her thighs, not of pain but of something almost like hunger, and after the events of the past week she knew what it meant.

It meant, unbelievably, that she wanted him. In the three days since they’d last been alone together, since she’d last felt his mouth on hers, he’d returned to Joffrey’s side, and the simple fact of his presence did something to her, something she couldn’t quite understand. The sound of his voice, the touch of his molten silver gaze heavy like his hands upon her, were enough to make her wet, something which would have once been confusing but was no longer. Whatever lies she told herself in the privacy of her own mind, it was clear by the way she fairly hummed with awareness whenever he was near that her body disagreed. Gods but he would laugh if he knew how the sight of him, even the thought of him, was affecting her now.

Almost as if he _did_ know, he raised his head and met her gaze, pinning her in place with the force of it even at so great a distance. Her breath caught and she could feel herself blushing, could hear her heartbeat pounding in her ears so loudly she was certain he could hear it as well. Though he was too far away to truly read the expression on his face or in his eyes, she could feel the intensity of his stare, and knew that he was seeing her and remembering just as she was.

Tyrion’s man noticed the Hound’s seeming distraction and moved to take advantage of it, sword darting quickly at his unprotected left side. Sansa gasped with concern, but he parried the thrust easily, almost nonchalantly, without even glancing in the sellsword’s direction.

“Look, look!” Joffrey exclaimed, digging his elbow hard into her ribs. “My dog doesn’t even need to see his opponent to best him!”

The king had been bested by him too, though His Grace did not know it, and Sansa couldn’t help but smile with uncharacteristic maliciousness at the thought. Of all the things Joffrey had taken and would take from her, there was one thing he could never have, and in that moment she was glad of it. She was glad of it and that frightened her.

On the tournament field, the Hound broke their stare, turning to engage the sellsword as though finally deciding to swat at a minorly irritating insect. His blade flashed bright in the sun, almost blinding her, and by the time she was no longer dazzled by it the flurry of motion was finished and Lord Tyrion’s pet lay still in the dirt.

Joffrey applauded wildly, grinning like the madman he was, and the small crowd that had gathered to watch this petty version of a real tourney did likewise. As the anemic response trickled off, the king gestured for the Hound to approach the dais.

“Well, Hound, you have cleared the field!” he exclaimed. “Just as I knew you would. I said so, did I not, Sansa?”

He did not wait for her to respond, but the Hound was close enough now that she could see his silver gaze flick to her briefly, the darting glance enough to steal her breath. She was nearly overwhelmed by the almost painful need to touch him, to run her fingers through his sweat-soaked hair, to put her mouth to his throbbing pulse and taste the salt of his skin.

“I’d insist you crown a Queen of Love and Beauty, but what does a dog know of either?” The king giggled at his own joke as the Hound tilted his head in acquiescence. “There is a purse for you, though not as heavy as I might have wished. Still, you may collect it from Lord Baelish.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” the Hound rasped, the harsh tone of his voice like callused fingers trailing down her spine until she shivered.

With an airy wave of his hand, Joffrey dismissed his words. “It’s nothing, certainly not enough of a prize for a dog like you. And I’m of a mind to be generous.” He glanced at Sansa with a disturbing gleam in his poisonous green eyes, and Sansa shifted uneasily. “Tell me, Hound, how do you like my betrothed? Is she not beautiful?”

“As you have said, Your Grace, a dog knows nothing of such things.”

“Perhaps not _nothing_ , but rather not much,” the king said, mouth curling in a sly smile, “I have seen you panting after her, so tell me: is she not beautiful?” 

“Yes,” the Hound answered shortly, the burned corner of his mouth twitching. For a moment her focus was taken from the thought of what Joffrey was planning to wonder if he meant it, if he found her beautiful. Surely he must, to do what he had done, to look at her the way he had before?

“Of course she is, as befits my future queen.” Joffrey reached out to stroke her cheek with the back of his hand, the pain of the rose cut stone of his ring digging into her skin down to her jawline enough to reclaim her attention. She flinched as the king smiled beatifically at her. “For today _she_ is your prize, dog. Once you leave the field she will entertain you as you see fit, and sit by your side at the feast this evening. Her company is insipid, I confess, but I daresay you’ll find some use for her.”

There was an instant of silence, absolute and shocked, before the few members of the court present began whispering to one another. Their eyes were trained on Sansa with expressions ranging from pity to glee, and she knew that many were relishing her further downfall as much as they had her father’s. The urge to bow her head in shame was strong, but she resisted, stiffening her spine and focusing on the Hound. 

His face was completely impassive as he bowed, even as his eyes burned – though with what, she could not say. “You do me great honor, Your Grace.”

“My lady? Are you honored, too?” Joffrey asked, voice soft and vicious. “You may express your pleasure.”

“I am, Your Grace,” she answered, lowering her gaze so that the Hound could not read the confusion and humiliation in it. “I am not worthy to be allowed to spend the day in your champion’s presence, though I will endeavor to deserve it.” 

There was another moment of silence, and Sansa looked back up to see Joffrey smirking, clearly pleased with himself. “No, you’re not, but I daresay he’s not at all particular, with a face like his. Dog, you may escort my lady from the field to accompany you wherever you like. You will bring her to the great hall for the feast tonight as well.” 

The Hound bowed low. “By your command.”

“Go with him, Sansa,” the king murmured, voice thick with excitement as it had been while watching the earlier bloodshed. In his mind, she supposed, this was no different. “He’ll break you in properly for me like the good dog he is.” He shoved her towards the stairs and she stumbled, cheeks burning even as she could feel the blood drain from the rest of her face.

 _He’ll break you in properly for me like the good dog he is._  

Without seeming to rush, the Hound was at her side, gripping her arm firmly and preventing her from falling. The warmth of his hand seeped through the fabric of her gown, and she wanted to find the strength in his touch comforting, reassuring. But Joffrey’s words were echoing in her mind, over and over until she was almost dizzy with them, until they broke over her like a wave to drown her with an epiphany. It dragged her under and choked her with knowledge that could not be denied, the force of it impelling her to break free of the Hound’s grasp as soon as she was steady enough to stand on her own. 

He gave her a dark look and almost seemed about to speak, but his jaw was clenched so tightly no words could possibly escape. She was grateful for it; with her thoughts spinning the way they were, she wasn’t certain she could force her lips to form words in response. In the end he merely indicated that she should follow him as he strode away, long legs eating up the hard-packed dirt of the tournament field with such speed that she had to hurry to keep pace. It wasn’t long before he was reaching for her again, and this time she didn’t resist despite the fact that the feel of his fingers wrapped around her forearm made her skin crawl nearly as much as the single phrase repeating inside her head did.

_He’ll break you in properly for me like the good dog he is._

She allowed him to drag her along through the castle gates, up the serpentine steps and into the halls of the Keep, her mind occupied with reliving every moment they had spent together and imagining him reporting each to a thoroughly delighted Joffrey. Had he smiled his deceptively angelic smile at the news that his will had been carried out? Had they laughed about it together, the way she’d submitted so easily? The way she’d come to him days later, only to end up on her back again? She almost wanted to question him about it but wasn’t certain she could bear the answers.

“Where are we going?” she asked instead, breathing labored. The corridors were unfamiliar to her, strangely empty for the hour, and reminded her uncomfortably of that first night, returning from the Godswood. “To your… To your quarters?”

He stopped suddenly, releasing and turning on her, and she realized that he was angry, more than angry. Furious. “To my quarters?” he demanded. “To my quarters? Why, so every courtier with a mind to hear you get fucked can wander by and listen? Stupid little bird.”

The sight of his fury only served to inflame her own. “I thought that was the point,” she spat. “What good is it, having you ruin me if no one knows about it? How can I be humiliated and shamed before the court when you make the mistake of… of… of _fucking_ me in a deserted hallway with no witnesses to spread the tale?” 

“What in the buggering hells are you talking about?” The shock on his face, the slack jaw and wide eyes, seemed almost genuine, and a distant part of her mind was unwillingly impressed that he could hide his thoughts so skillfully. He’d told her once he’d never lie to her… She hadn’t realized he’d meant that she’d never be able to tell if he did.

Narrowing her eyes at him, she did her best to see through his mask. “As if you don’t know. Did you volunteer? Did you like the idea of _breaking me in properly_ for him? Or did you and the rest of the Kingsguard draw lots?” She almost choked on the words, the effort of speaking them enough to make her throat tight. The thought of Meryn Trant or Boros Blount snaking their hands eagerly towards a handful of straws, hoping to draw the short one, made her sick.

“Little bird –” he began, reaching for her again, but she backed away from him until she could feel the cold stone of the wall behind her. 

“Don’t call me that,” she said, voice low and deadly, completely untouched by the tears that were coursing down her face. “Don’t you dare. Not now that I know the truth.”

The confusion on his face tightened, solidified, became something more, something dangerous. His lips twitched as he bared his teeth in a grimace that distorted his scars and twisted them, highlighting all their ugliness. 

“The truth?” His voice was as low as hers, as deadly as hers, but with something more as well, some wildness she could never hope to match. “You know nothing, girl, not a bloody thing.”

Before she could make any retort, he drew near and clamped one large hand over her mouth, using the strength of it to push her head back against the wall until her eyes were forced to meet his. They were seething with rage, darker than she had ever seen them.

“If you think I get this hard at Joffrey’s word, you’re even stupider than I thought,” he snarled, pressing his solid mass against her until she could feel the length of his manhood through his breeches. He was as hard as he’d claimed, hot and throbbing along her belly, and despite her anger she could feel an answering throbbing between her legs. She hated him. She wanted to spread her legs for him and wrap them around his waist. “Did you never notice the way I watched you, the way I followed you? Did you really not _know_?”

She was shocked enough by his words that she couldn’t give him an answer even if he had wanted one, even if she had been physically able to speak. His eyes held the same wildness as his voice, something she’d have expected to see on a battlefield if she hadn’t just seen him fighting, hadn’t known his eyes were always cool and calculating in the midst of that warlike chaos. This was something else, something she didn’t quite understand, something that frightened her and excited her both.

“I didn’t need a king’s command encouraging me to fuck you, believe that. You were encouragement enough all on your own." 

With another swift movement his free hand was in her hair, tangling and twisting and holding tight, and he brought his face even with hers, close enough that she could feel the heat of his breath on her skin.

“You shouldn’t have been out so late,” he hissed. “Shouldn’t have been wandering alone, with your hair all down around your shoulders and your dress cut so low…”

She made a sound of outrage deep in her throat, a sound he could discern despite the way he had silenced her, and he laughed bitterly.

“I tell myself I just gave you what you deserved but I know I’m making excuses. Before, when I said I wasn’t sorry, I lied. I wish I could blame it on you, or Joff, or anyone else. But it was just me, my fault. I _wanted_ you. I still do; I know you can feel how I still want you.”

Without another word, he removed the hand covering her mouth and - quickly, so quickly, always quickly, always hard - replaced it with his lips.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A strange fascination with walls continues...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every one of you owes a debt to Lady Cyprus, who read the first draft of this chapter and said "I mean, it's hot... But you know it could be hotter." So I kicked it up a notch...
> 
> All warnings still apply, to be safe.

The pressure of his mouth on hers was almost punishing, almost painful, and Sansa found herself returning it purely out of self-defense. Only by responding to his kiss could she escape the bruising intensity of it. The Hound’s half-ruined lips moved over hers urgently with a clear demand, and she parted her own for him, moaning when she felt the slick heat of his tongue stroking insistently against hers. The grip of his fingers threaded through her hair held her in place for him as he explored her mouth, and his free hand caressed her waist restlessly, stroking from the soft indent of it up to her ribcage and back down again.

It was disorienting, the sudden onslaught of his lips, and as he nipped at her with his sharp teeth she realized that he’d never kissed her like this before, never pressed his mouth to hers without first being inside her. That thought sent a jolt of pure desire through her. Without consciously choosing to she found that she was standing on her tiptoes, forcing her lips more fully against his, changing the angle of her head and allowing him deeper access. He took full advantage of it, pinning her against the wall the way he had not so long ago, but it was different this time. Then she had been afraid, but now… Well, she was still afraid, but mostly of herself, of the way she wanted this.

She wanted things she was ashamed to admit, but that shame was only inside her mind. Her body apparently felt none, and wasn’t fully under her control, or so it seemed based on the way she grabbed the large hand clutching at her waist and dragged it higher until he was cupping her breast firmly. His thumb brushed over her hardened nipple again and again as she shivered in his arms with the feel of it. He made a sound almost like a growl, one she felt more than heard, and she would have laughed if not for the fact that his palm kneading her flesh felt so unbearably good.

Releasing his hold on her hair, he reached down to gather the fabric of her skirt and push it up and up, and she made no protest, only kissed him harder. His fingers skimmed over her knee and his callused touch dragged at the soft skin of her upper thigh until she was mad with anticipation, waiting for him to caress her where she wanted him to. A shudder wracked her body when he finally slipped his hand between her legs. She was not ignorant of what he would find there, knew that she was wet to her very core for him, and he lifted his mouth from hers in shock when he felt the truth of it soaking through her smallclothes.

“Seven hells, little bird,” he cursed, rubbing her through the clinging fabric, and she gasped and arched her hips to press herself hard into his hand. “What gallant knight caught your eye on the field and made you so bloody wet?”

His voice was harsh with that strange combination of desire and anger she imagined must belong to him alone, and his eyes were the same, dark like flint and striking silver sparks. Before she could answer, his fingers had found their way into her smallclothes, and he pressed two deep inside of her with a roughness that should have been painful but wasn’t, not now. She inhaled sharply and lifted her hips again, moaning as she felt him move even deeper.

“Not a knight,” she gasped, eyes locked on his, and he snarled at her even as he added a third finger, stretching her almost cruelly as though to punish her for her words.

“Careful, girl,” he warned. “You’ll have me believing you want me shoving my cock inside you as much as I want to.”

It was so hard to think with him so close, with his fingers moving within her and hurting so beautifully, and she couldn’t quite reconcile the desire flooding her body with the knowledge that everything the Hound was doing to her played perfectly into Joffrey’s despicable hands. Yet she couldn’t quite summon the enthusiasm to protest, either, not when it felt so good.

Her lack of response only seemed to anger him further, and he pulled away from her with a suddenness that was almost shocking. Sansa felt immediately, acutely bereft, empty where before his fingers had filled her, and the breast he had been teasing ached for the return of his hand. For a moment she feared that he would leave her like that, unsatisfied and unfinished alone in the hallway. But then he was grasping the fabric of her skirt again, pulling it even higher until the front was up around her waist, exposing her long legs and the transparent, sodden silk barely hiding the throbbing place between them.

“Hold,” he ordered, expression unreadable as he glared at her, and she could not imagine refusing him. She brought her shaky hands to the hem of her dress and held it just as he’d commanded.

Without warning he reached out and tugged her undergarments down, ignoring them as they came to rest around her ankles, and the miniscule part of her mind that was able to focus on anything was grateful that he hadn’t ripped them away. But that part was silenced as soon as she felt the cool air of the hallway on her bare flesh, felt the heat of her own blood rising to the surface of her skin in a fiery blush because he was staring at her so intently. He had looked at her before, but never like this, never with so much light, and something about still being mostly clothed made the whole situation feel even more illicit than it already was. The urge to cover herself was almost overwhelming and she shifted uneasily as she fought it.

He dropped to his knees in front of her, one hand stilling her movement by cupping the curve of her arse, the other taking hold of her ankle and lifting her leg to throw it over his shoulder. She inhaled sharply, horrified at the knowledge of how thoroughly she was revealed to him, far more than she had been in his room. Then there had been moonlight and shadows, but now the sun streaming through the windows of the hallway left nothing to the imagination and nowhere to hide. He liked looking at her, she knew as much already, but she wanted nothing more than to clamp her legs shut and hide herself from him.

As if he knew exactly what she was thinking, he pressed hard on her hip, pinning her in place. “No,” he murmured, still staring. “Show me your cunt.”

He stroked one finger along her parted slit and she let out a little sob at the pleasure his rough skin gliding over her awakened. She was so aware, suddenly, of the ache there between her legs, everything within her focused on the feel of him touching her there until all save the two of them faded to nothingness.

“Please,” she said, but couldn’t determine how to finish the sentence, wasn’t sure if she wanted to beg him to stop or beg him to continue. Somehow her fingers were threaded through his damp hair but she didn’t know if she should pull him away or drag him closer.

She didn’t doubt for one moment that he understood, that he knew of her uncertainty, but he was not plagued by similar doubts. With nothing more than a single searing glance at her face, he leaned forward and placed his mouth against her.

It felt as searing as his gaze, his uneven lips open over her, his slick hot tongue meeting her slick hot flesh, her entire body alive and humming with the bliss of him tasting her. Her most sensitive spot, nestled somewhere within the complicated folds of her sex, throbbed in anticipation, and she moaned loudly with the almost unbearable need that filled her at the thought of him finding it. 

He pulled back as far as her hand at the back of his head would allow, eyes meeting hers with a fierce intensity she’d never seen in anyone but him. “Quiet,” he admonished, “or the whole court will find you with your skirt around your waist and me lapping at you like a true dog.”

“It’s what Joffrey wants,” she reminded him breathlessly, though the thought of it still made her shudder.

“Bugger Joffrey,” he rasped with a dark look, lowering his burnt lips to her most private place once more.

There was a new urgency to his attentions, mouth moving over her almost desperately, tongue darting out to search through her warmth for that spot she’d so wished him to find once more. He focused on it immediately, lashing it with his tongue again and again, too much, too fast, and she squirmed in ecstasy bordering on discomfort under this sudden rough assault. The sensation was overwhelming, a bolt of pure white light piercing her through and through, driving her so high so quickly. She tried to raise herself to him, tried to get _more_ even as she thought it might kill her, but he held her firmly in place, his strength far too great to fight.

Her pleasure was building already, gathering heavy in her limbs and increasing exponentially as his lips closed around her throbbing flesh, sucking firmly. It was almost too much to bear, the feeling so hot and so intense, and she raised a trembling hand to her mouth to smother the cry she couldn’t hold back. She pressed down brutally, teeth scoring the soft flesh of her inner lips, eyes closing tight against the need to give voice to her pain and confusion and overwhelming ecstasy. He was flicking her with his tongue now even as he sucked, the combination of both forcing her right to the edge of a cliff she could hardly wait to fly off of, and she knew he knew exactly what he was doing, knew just how close she was.

He proved it by pulling away just as she was certain nothing could stop the wave of bliss so near to dragging her under, and suddenly she hung suspended in a twilight state of frustrated anticipation. She made a desperate, desolate sound, unable to completely silence it, and her fingers tightened reflexively in his hair in an attempt to urge him forward. Yet he was immovable as always; her paltry efforts, she knew, could never be enough to sway him.

“Do you remember the last time I did this to you?” he asked, eyes hard and mouth twisted in an ugly smirk. “When I brought you so close then made you beg, made you wait to come until I could be inside you?”

She wanted to laugh, wanted to tell him she could hardly remember her own name and certainly couldn’t remember what had happened three days ago, but the fact was that she did. She remembered all too well the unfulfilled desire he’d been pleased to torture her with.

Allowing her hand to fall from her mouth, she cupped his scarred cheek, moaning softly at the way his eyes flashed when she did so.

“Shall I beg, my lord?” As before she knew that looking back she would hate herself for the words she was speaking but she couldn’t help it. The need to have him finish her was too great for foolish pride.

“Am I your _lord_ , Sansa?” he taunted. “Even with my face between your legs?”

“Sandor,” she amended, savoring the rush of speaking his name. “ _Sandor_. Shall I beg?”

He exhaled sharply, leaning forward to press the ridges of his scars to her inner thigh, dropping stinging kisses there that made her legs shake before responding.

“I think I’d like that,” he said, voice unsteady, even as he slid one long finger through her folds, pushed it inside so slowly. She gasped and tightened around him, unbearably close to the ecstasy she needed but not close enough, not even when he added a second finger to stretch her further. “I’d like you to beg for my cock for all the court to hear until I had no choice but to fuck you hard into the wall.”

“Yes,” she murmured, voice breaking as he curled his fingers inside her. She couldn’t think clearly enough to form any other words, couldn’t bear to speak her desire in any more explicit terms. But the way he said it, his crude words, made her want it. “Yes, yes…”

“I’d make you wrap your legs around me this time, and take me so deep while they looked on… I’d make them see how much you love it, listen to you moan like a whore just for me.”

His tongue darted out then, just for a moment, flicking over her so lightly, and she couldn’t suppress the high keening sound that escaped her mouth at the feel of it. Every muscle in her body was taut, tense, just waiting for that final push to release, and that touch of his tongue was almostalmostalmost it… But not quite, not yet.

“Quiet,” he ordered again, stilling his movements until she obeyed and resuming only when her hand safely pressed against her lips once more. “Otherwise I’ll have my wish, a hundred courtiers staring as you come when I fill your cunt with my seed. And then I’ll watch you dance with Joffrey at the feast knowing it’s still buried deep inside…”

Without warning, he added another finger and pushed into her hard, leaning forward to scrape his teeth over her at the same time, and it hurt but in the perfect way, exactly the way she needed to fall into the abyss he’d opened at her feet. Pleasure flowed through her, fierce and scalding, and even her palm clamped tightly over her mouth couldn’t silence her groan of completion. He was groaning too, again and again as she tightened and released around him. On her hip his fingers curled and dug in hard, keeping her nearly still and helpless as she shook uncontrollably under his assault.

It was different from the other times he’d made her feel so good, sharper, more powerful, and something about the way he’d brought her so much pleasure so immediately made it last and last. His lips and tongue drew every drop of bliss from her trembling body, refusing to abandon her until she was spent and exhausted, held upright only by his grasp on her waist and the cold stone behind her. He placed a last lingering kiss on her aching center before lifting his mouth and easing his fingers out of her almost gently, frantic breath ghosting over her sensitized skin.

“Fuck,” he gasped, wiping at his glistening lips as his panting finally slowed.

Without warning he was on his feet, and she might have found herself sinking to the floor if not for the fact that his heavily muscled body was anchoring her to the wall. His cock was even harder than before and she could feel it clearly, the stiffness of it digging into her belly as he rubbed himself against her.

“Gods but your cunt is sweet,” he said, eyes burning into hers as she looked up into his harsh face, rigid with desire. He brought his still-wet fingers to her mouth, slipping them between her lips, and she sucked on them hesitantly, tasting herself the way she knew he wanted. It wasn’t unpleasant, she was pleased to find as she licked them clean, pleased to see the dazed arousal on his face as he watched her do it. “ _Fuck_.”

She kept her eyes locked to his as she rested one hand lightly on the front of his breeches and rubbed him through the fabric. “If we had time, little bird, I’d be inside you already,” he murmured, thrusting himself against her palm.

His words reawakened the desire within that she’d thought had been extinguished for now, and she moaned around his fingers as he let out a shuddering breath. For one moment she could see the indecision in his eyes, knew that he was close to fucking her into the wall the way he’d promised, and she was almost ashamed of herself for fervently wishing he’d decide to take her that way again. It wouldn’t be like the first time, she knew, because she wanted him now so desperately.

He pressed himself harder against her and it seemed she would get her wish until, with a frustrated sigh, he removed his fingers from the wet heat of her mouth one by one. “ _If_ we had time. We don’t,” he said, anger plain in his voice (though directed at whom she could not say). “Every bloody fool making their way back from the tourney will be upon us soon.”

“I don’t understand,” she said softly. “What does it matter? Joffrey wants them to… I mean, he assumes you’ll… He told me you’d _break me in for him_.” Just speaking those words was painful, reminding her that she was at the mercy of a madman, reminding her of how she’d doubted the man who’d just pleasured her so thoroughly. “He wants all the court to know of it.”

His face darkened. “I told you before, bugger Joffrey. I’ll not ruin you by his order.”

“I’m already ruined,” she reminded him.

“But not at his command,” he said, tangling one hand in her hair and tugging her head back. “Look at me. Tell me you believe it.”

“I –” Her eyes slid away from his. “I _want_ to believe it.”

“Little bird…” There was something in his voice, something lost and sad, hiding underneath the harsh rasp, and she thought that he wanted her to believe it as much as she wanted to. “I wouldn’t do that, not to you.”

“No? Then what are you doing now?” she demanded.

His grip tightened painfully in her hair, and she could see the rage she knew always lay in wait inside him spill over as he bared his teeth at her. “Nothing! Not a bloody thing! Your buggering septa herself could rise from her grave and find nothing to chastise in the way I’m standing here with you!”

She couldn’t help the wry look she pinned him with, not considering that his hard body was still flush against hers, his manhood heavy between them, his hands in her hair and his face so close to hers. Septa Mordane would surely have been appalled, as appalled as Sansa should be but somehow wasn’t. She wasn’t afraid, either, despite his rage.

“What? Would you prefer I take you here, fuck you exactly the way I described?” His uneven mouth was twisted in a snarl, and there was a tightness around his eyes that told her he was terribly, gloriously close to doing exactly that. “You got wetter and wetter with every word, so maybe that’s how you want it, and gods know I’d be glad to give it to you. But I’m not the one who’d be shamed by it, believe that.”

“I’m as shamed as I am ruined,” she bit out, frustrated in more ways than she’d ever known existed. Frustrated by her desire, by his cruelty, by his refusal to recognize or acknowledge the truth. 

“Stupid girl,” he said. “You’re neither, not if no one knows about it.”

She blinked at him, sluggish mind fighting to comprehend his meaning, but then he was kissing her so hard she couldn’t think at all. It was brief and painful and more like being caught in the jaws of a beast attempting to devour her than anything else, and she wondered if maybe he really had lost control, if everything he’d promised was about to come to pass. Wondered if maybe she didn’t care.

Just as she was about to part her lips for him, he wrenched away, breathing heavily as he stared at her.

“Fix your hair,” he ordered roughly. “I’ll take you to the Queen. She spends this time with Tommen and Myrcella, and today you’ll join them… Before the courtiers reach the Keep, with any luck. She’ll be a proper chaperone for you and no one will have cause to think I fucked you bloody.”

“But we did… I mean, there was enough time to…” Sansa could feel herself blushing again, even more deeply, as she struggled for a way to describe what had happened. 

“You came practically the second I put my mouth on you,” he said as he turned away from her, voice low and rough. “Even with the way I made you wait. You’re so bloody easy. We probably have time enough for me to do it again, shove my fingers in your cunt and make you scream…”

She gasped softly, more in anticipation than in fear, and he saw it, narrowed his eyes at her. “Don’t tempt me, girl. Come along to the Queen before I decide to ruin you for true all over the godsdamned Keep, starting with the bloody throne room.”


End file.
